


changing room mishaps

by canvases (oilpaints)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-26 03:45:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13849407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oilpaints/pseuds/canvases
Summary: Semi cycles through wanting to kiss Shirabu, kill him, or kick him. Not necessarily in that order. He really should sort his feelings out before any locker room incidents happen. What kind of locker room incident? He might just find out.





	changing room mishaps

**Author's Note:**

> i was re-reading some of my older fics. _[kill, kick, kiss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9408434)_ was laughably awful, but i really liked the idea and some of the lines. so i rewrote it. semi seems a little more angry than he should be, but whatever. i actually kinda like this! hopefully, so will you.

•

**i want to ki__ you**

_option a: kill_

_option b: kick_

_option c: kiss_

•

 

**option a: kill**

 

In the changing room, things tend to get messy in every possible sense of word.

Literally speaking, cramming a bunch of teenage boys into a single area and expecting it to remain clean is a fool’s dream. Shiratorizawa may be a prestigious school, but teenagers are teenagers. Things could be worse, but they could be better. The lost and found has managed to collect way too many dirty, abandoned socks.

In the less literal sense, there’s a lot of shouting and banter. At least there haven’t been any serious fights yet.

Semi thinks that he and Shirabu are really testing that last one.

Although, to give them both credit, the tension remains tension—it never extends to anything physical. Mostly they just scowl and glare at each other a lot. Semi can’t help but try to rile Shirabu up a little, either. It doesn’t help that the first year has a surprisingly sharp tongue. A part of him finds the arguing (he refuses to refer to their exchange of quips _banter,_  no matter what Tendou says) a little exhilarating. Maybe that’s messed up, but the locker room is a place for messes.

Anyway, they would never engage in a physical fight. First of all, Shirabu is his underclassman, and Semi doesn’t _actually_ hate him. Also, the floors are slippery and starting a fight in the changing rooms is a stupid idea. They’re both far above and beyond beyond that.

Semi shoves on his pants and tries not to think too much about the upstart pretty-boy first year, who looks more like he should be running for class president than running laps around the gym. Then again, the determined glint in Shirabu’s eyes constantly dares him to think otherwise.

Semi contemplates choking himself with his tie to put himself out of his misery.

He really should be more mature than this. Of course he feels a little resentful that Shirabu took his starting spot, but most of his anger is towards himself, really. For not being good enough. For not working hard enough. He’s just taking it out on Shirabu, because he’s a physical manifestation of his failure.

That’s what Tendou’s unwanted psychoanalysis states, anyway, but fuck Tendou.

“Hey, Eita-kun.” Speak of the devil. Tendou peers around his open locker and smiles maniacally. Semi is a little unnerved at the sight of him with his hair down. He looks a little less devil-like, except not really—his smile is ruining the innocent bowl-cut look. “I know that face.”

He snorts, taking out his shirt. “What, my _dealing-with-my-idiot-friend_ face?”

“No. Your _thinking-about-Shirabu_ face.”

Semi freezes, then crumples his shirt in his hands. “I don’t have a Shirabu face. I don’t think about him.” He stares at Tendou, challenging him to say otherwise.  

Tendou blinks back disbelievingly. “Who are you trying to kid here?” He glances around the changing room dramatically. He spreads his arms, gesturing to their oblivious teammates. “Nobody is kidded, Eita-kun,” he continues, ignoring proper grammar. “Nobody!”

The second and third years are used to dramatic shouting from Tendou, but the first years give them weird looks. Except for Shirabu—not that Semi is actively trying to gauge his reactions. He just happened to glance in his general direction. Unfazed, Shirabu just tugs on his socks methodically.

As if he could sense Semi staring, Shirabu picks that moment to glance up.

They lock eyes.

An appropriate way to phrase it, since neither of them seem to be able to turn away. They’re both stubborn idiots unable to back away from a challenge, so the glance turns into a staring contest somehow.

Semi doesn’t know why, but the air seems to grow more heated. Maybe it’s his own irritation,i Shirabu’s aggravation, or the steam from the showers. Whatever. Shirabu’s raised eyebrow prompts a wordless conversation.

_What do you want?_

_Nothing. What are you looking at?_

Shirabu scoffs. _Not you,_ he seems to say, then pointedly goes back to folding his gym clothes. What a neat freak. Semi represses any vaguely fond feelings. He refuses to chuckle at Shirabu meticulously tucking everything into his bag. He refuses to think _Typical Shirabu._ He refuses.

And yet his feet move towards Shirabu, anyway.

“Yes?” the shorter boy asks in a sort of strained polite tone. “Can I help you with anything, Semi-san? You’ve been staring at me for a while now.”

 _Glaring._ Semi scowls. He’s been glaring, not staring. _What the hell, kid._

“You were off today. At practice.” Semi’s mouth seems to be moving in autopilot. He really doesn’t understand why he’s like this. He should probably find a way to vent his emotions in a healthier way. “Also, you really should set to players other than Ushijima. He’s a great player, but everyone else deserves a chance, too.”

Shirabu is looking everywhere but at him.

“Thanks, senpai,” he says, somehow making the honorific sound cutting, “but I know what I’m doing.” As he gets up, he grabs his bag, still not looking anywhere in his direction. “If you’ll excuse me, I have class.”

Bemused, Semi crosses his arms over his chest and watches him go. Shirabu slings his bag over his shoulder. Another first year—Kawanishi, lazy-eyed and messy-haired—meets him at the doorway and makes some kind of jab. Shirabu glares at him, says something snappy, and walks off briskly.

“The hell was that?” he asks himself.

Tendou walks up to him, grinning slyly. “You nearly killed the poor kid. I know you guys aren’t best buds, but have some mercy.”

“What does that mean? I just wanted to tell him that he should stop treating Ushijima like a god and give other players a chance—”

“Yeah, yeah, all that good stuff. I get it. Next time you try to lecture him, though?” Tendou grins, eyes glinting. “Put on a shirt.”

Semi blinks, then realizes that he’s still holding his bundled-up shirt in his hands.  “Okay.” He grimaces slightly. “Maybe that was a little awkward, but it’s just a shirt. It’s not like I was naked or anything. How bad could that be?”

Tendou blinks at him.

Then he starts cackling.

Semi sighs, then notices Shirabu’s I.D. on the bench. He must have forgotten it. He glances at Tendou, still hunched over in laughter for whatever weird reason—Semi has been friends with him long enough to stop questioning him—and decides to return it himself.

He shoves an undershirt on hastily, then pulls on his uniform, not bothering to button up in haste. He grabs the I.D. by the silky maroon strap (of course it’s clean and in perfect shape) and runs after Shirabu.

Thankfully, he’s not too far off. Kawanishi spots him first, then taps Shirabu’s shoulder and says something, then points back at him. Shirabu turns around, a strained smile on his face. They walk towards each other and meet in the middle.

“You forgot your I.D.” Semi holds it up. He catches sight of Shirabu’s picture. He’s smiling, looking a little more happy than he’s ever seen him. Considering the pictures were taken at the start of the year, he also looks a little more baby-faced. Semi snorts. “You look cute.”

Shirabu snatches it, his face flushed with what Semi figures is a mix of embarrassment and irritation. “Thanks,” he says through his teeth, grabbing his I.D. and looping it around his neck. Shirabu glares at him all the while.

Semi raises an eyebrow. If looks could kill, he’d be dead.

He can’t help but echo the sentiment.

(If a little weakly, though Shirabu doesn’t need to know.)

 

* * *

 

**option b: kick**

 

In the changing room, Semi finds that clothes aren’t the only thing that change.

The end of Semi’s second year is nearing. Shirabu is as insufferable as ever, but in the locker room, the tension is different from the tension on court. Not that there’s much angry tension between them anymore. Semi has figured some things out. He’s accepted his spot on the sidelines and has started practicing his serves instead. He’s not giving up—no, he’s just finding a different place to shine in.

Maybe the fact that their lockers are far enough apart contributes to their locker room truce. Probably not, since they both go out of their way to cross the distance to mock each other, anyway.

They meet on the bench at the same time to pull on their socks. Semi used to just stand and struggle, but they’ve established a routine. Shirabu is a stickler for routine. Semi isn’t, but it’s something to do.

He has a feeling that while their teammates don’t bother them, and continue to act undeterred by their banter—with Tendou being a prime exception—they actually find this all amusing. Semi is pissed at them for that, but he can’t help but find Shirabu’s quick snapbacks impressively entertaining as well.

May as well give them all something to look at, right?

Shirabu brushes his fringe out of his forehead. He tucks the various strands into place. He needs a haircut. Semi has no idea how he manages to keep his hair so ruler-straight and angular. His own hair is a physics-defying mess at all times.

“Your tie is loose,” is today’s remark. Yesterday’s was about his fading hair dye, something about him looking like an oreo (though it was more of an observation than anything—Shirabu’s laughter cancelled out any bite to his tone). “It looks like it’s going to fall off. Do you not know how to tie a tie properly?”

A bunch of lockers are slamming around them. The steam warms the room, or maybe that’s just Semi’s blood pressure rising. He catches Shirabu’s friend, Kawanishi, watching with vague amusement. Their daily banter really does seem to be some kind of drama show for everyone else.

Shirabu is staring at him expectantly. His muted brown eyes are gleaming with challenge. He should know that Semi rarely backs down from a challenge, and Shirabu Kenjirou is a challenge in his own right.

“You’re one to talk,” he replies. “You’re tie’s too tight. You look like you could choke. Breathe a little every once in a while. It won’t kill you. Actually, it might give you some life.”

“Ooh.” Tendou laughs as he walks past. Semi sticks his leg out in an attempt to trip him.

Shirabu rolls his eyes. Semi is surprised when he moves closer, eyebrows furrowed. “Shirabu, what are you—” Shirabu raises his hands, and Semi wonders if he’s actually going to hit him. Instead, his fingers move to tighten his tie. In turn, it happens to tighten his throat as well.

He only has enough time to notice the small scar at the bridge of Shirabu’s nose before he moves away again. Always out of reach.

(Semi has been noticing too much about him lately. The sharpness of his wrist bones. The way he ties shoelaces in a quick, effective way that he’s never seen before. The songlike lilt to his voice. His laugh, foreign and rare. His mouth when he’s playing, bitten raw red.

The way he makes Semi’s heart _burn,_ without fail.)

The words stick in Semi’s throat, but he forces them out anyway. “Thanks,” he says, managing to sound sarcastic. “Should I loosen yours in return?”

Shirabu glares at him, but there’s less heat behind it than usual. He straightens his collar, gets up, and kicks Semi’s ankle. Shirabu just smiles at his scowl. “I only wish I’d kicked you sooner. And harder.”

And then he leaves. What a brat.

Although Semi really can’t judge, considering how he trips him on the way out. He can’t help but feel a little satisfied at seeing him stumble for once.

“Banter,” Tendou says knowingly. He sounds too smug for his own good.

Semi hates the word. It makes them sound like an old married couple. But he can’t think of a better term, or a good retort, so he sticks up his middle finger in response to Tendou.

Shirabu scowls at him from the doorway, looking for all the world like he would kick him again and again if given the chance. Semi returns the feeling. What an uncute brat.

Although, at least there’s less murder in both of their eyes. Maybe they’re making progress.

 

* * *

 

**option c: kiss**

 

In the changing room, the shadows cast sharp lines along Shirabu’s face. Semi watches him run his fingers repeatedly through his hair—one of his rare habits that shows just how distressed he is. He’s also pacing, which is another of his habits.

Semi has no idea when all his casual observations about Shirabu turned into understanding. He tries to pretend he doesn’t know why he bothers, but he knows the horrible truth in his heart of hearts. His reaction to seeing Shirabu looking so lost only confirms everything. Before, he might’ve relished in seeing him beyond the neatly pressed lines, the poster-boy image. Now, he can’t think of anything other than reaching out and wrapping him in his arms.

 _Wow,_ he thinks. _Wow, I have a problem. Wow, Tendou is never gonna let me hear the end of this._

Wow, Shirabu looks pretty in this lighting. No surprise. He looks nice (good, beautiful, whatever) in every possible light. Semi really needs to get a grip, and maybe to get out of this room where he is trapped alone with Shirabu. Right now.

But he can’t. Shirabu had asked him to stay behind, and offered to lock up just so they could have privacy. Semi isn’t the most patient of people, but he waits on the bench and watches Shirabu war with himself internally.

The clock ticks, agonizingly slow.

Semi decides to gently nudge him into speaking. “So—”

“ _Ilikeyou,_ ” Shirabu blurts out in a flustered rush. Probably just to shut him up. The world whirls, reeling at the proclamation, then goes into a standstill.

Semi blinks. “You what?”

Shirabu frowns at the floor. He looks like the cracked tiles have somehow personally offended him. “I like you,” he repeats, a little calmer. “For some reason. And I don’t mean I tolerate-you like-you. I mean that I have romantic feelings in your vague direction, and I’m taking it to mean I have romantic feelings for you, because Tendou would be a horrible person to have romantic feelings for.”

Semi gapes at him.

Shirabu forges on, more composed. “Sorry, I’ve never had to confess to anyone before. But I thought that I should just get it over with.” Oh no, his tone is gradually becoming more clipped and business-like, which means he’s shutting down. Semi really should say something, but his voice isn’t working. “This won’t interfere with practice. I guess I’ll just g—”

Semi grabs his wrist. “You’re a brat,” he blurts out. Shirabu makes a face, and Semi feels like slapping himself. No matter. He’ll roll with it. “You never listen to me. You piss me off most of the time.”

Shirabu watches him with a cool, detached gaze. He switches the position of their hands so that he’s the one holding Semi’s wrist. His eyes become less cold when he can feel Semi’s heart beating a mile a minute. Fine, if that what makes him feel better.

“ _But_?” Shirabu drawls.

“Why are you assuming there’s a but?” he retorts, just for the sake of being contrary.

Shirabu huffs a laugh, eyes twinkling. “You’re not cruel, Semi-san. I doubt you’d respond to a confession with hate. Also, your skin is warm and your pulse is fast.” He holds his arm up for emphasis, then realizes that they’re nearly holding hands and drops it in embarrassment.

Semi eyes Shirabu for a moment.  His usually immaculate hair is messy. Where his fingers held his arm, he can still feel warm pinpricks of heat. His eyes are molen bronze, glittering with challenge.

( _Beautiful, beautiful_.)

(And he never could back down from a challenge.)

“But,” Semi starts.

The fan whirs overhead. Shirabu’s usual hard, metal gaze melts into something warm and soft.

“Somewhere down the line, I think I went from wanting to kill you to wanting to kick you to...liking you back, I guess.” Semi swallows. “For some reason.”

For _many_ reasons, actually. Shirabu is smart and cunning and ridiculously fierce. There’s enough fight in his eyes to tear down an entire team in just one cool glance. He works with firm determination, and never leaves his goals out of reach. He knows what he wants, and he will do anything to get it. Semi respects that. Admires it, even. Has come to rely on it, even.

Nobody can banter with Semi the way Shirabu does. Nobody can make Semi _feel_ the way Shirabu does.

Nobody can set his heart on fire like this horrible (magnificent, wonderful) upstart (unbelievably determined) first-year. Truly, honestly, fiercely.

Semi bites his tongue before he can say something dumb, like he usually does around Shirabu. He licks his lips, tastes water-based chapstick and a trembling prayer. He just stares, like he usually does around Shirabu. It’s not like he can think of anything better to do.

Actually, he can.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks. “I want to kiss you.”

Shirabu’s smile grows wider. It’s the first time he’s seen him smile with teeth, and he’s enamored. He laughs a little, and he’s even more charmed. His heart feels invested. “Oh,” Shirabu breathes. “About time.”

Semi rolls his eyes, leans in, and kisses his stupid mouth.

An effective way to shut him up, apparently. Semi had tugged Shirabu towards him sharply, but he finds that Shirabu kisses nothing like the way he plays on court—he’s all soft, sweet lips and clumsy hands. He seems a little uncertain. Semi figures he’s never kissed anyone before. _Fixed that,_ he thinks with satisfaction.

Barely thirty seconds in, Shirabu grows a little more certain of what he’s doing. He always was a quick learner. His fingers grasp at Semi’s collar, and his other hand rests on Semi’s nape as he starts to kiss back in earnest.

Semi suppresses a giddy grin.

 _Finally,_ his heart sighs.

“Finally,” Shirabu murmurs against his mouth.

Semi draws him closer, laughing lightly. He wonders what it means to have his heart sync up with Shirabu. Nothing good, probably. But their foreheads are pressed together and he can’t bring himself to care.

“Shut up,” he whispers back. Shirabu stares at him with pupils blown wide and lips parted. “One more time?”

“Don’t bother asking,” Shirabu says, then sets him on fire by kissing him again.

He’s suddenly really glad that they didn’t kill each other at the start of the year. While he’s sure the habit of kicking each other will stick, kissing is proving to be a _lot_ better.

•

_option a_

_option b_

**▶ option** **c: kiss** ◀

**“i want to kiss you.”**

 •


End file.
